


Under Pressure

by Unforth



Series: Somebody to Love [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amputee Castiel (Supernatural), Asexual Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel's Family Being Assholes (Supernatural), M/M, Meet-Cute, Military Veteran Castiel (Supernatural), New York City, Openly Bisexual Dean Winchester, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pride, Pride Parades, Supportive Dean Winchester, Trans Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:55:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22665877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth
Summary: Since his discharge from the VA Hospital, Castiel has stuck close to his Chelsea SRO. However, under the pressure of Anna's worry, he finally decides to take a chance on a public gathering.In retrospect, given his baggage, Pride in Greenwich Village might not have been his best choice.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Somebody to Love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1630609
Comments: 130
Kudos: 570





	Under Pressure

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, in like June last year, Kaeru did an art piece of amputee Cas and his boyfriend, trans Dean, and I was instantly like ALL THE YES, and we've been chatting about the AU since then. The core idea is all hers, I'm just making into words, and I've been so delighted to get the opportunity to work with her cause she's amaaaazing and her art is so beautiful and this AU has just been so wonderful to develop together.
> 
> Definitely check out her work -  
> [c-kaeru.tumblr.com](https://c-kaeru.tumblr.com/)  
> [c_kaeru_ on Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/c_kaeru_/)
> 
> This AU will be posted as individual stories all set in the same verse. Each work will have at least one accompanying piece of art work. We don't have any kind of timeline but we have solid, basically-ready-to-write ideas for three more stories, and plans for more besides that (if only cause those three stories don't actually go back-to-back, other stuff definitely has to happen between them). We don't have a posting schedule, though...they'll come when they come?
> 
> We hope you enjoy reading about this world as much as we've enjoyed developing it!!
> 
> (this installment is gen but ratings on future installments will range as high as explicit; some tags that don't apply to this story but will be relevant to future stories in the series include: John Winchester's A+ Parenting, past transphobia, past bullying, past family being horrible; basically both Dean and Cas had difficult lives in the past, but the "present" will be mostly fluff...mostly...)

“....yeah, dance, fucker!”

Head spinning, Cas struggled to get his bearings. 

“...watch where you’re…”

There were so many people.

“...woooohoo!”

There was so much noise.

“...here, look…”

There was so much _pressure_ , on him, around him, pounding at his head, assaulting his body.

“...and the land of the…”

_...too much...it’s far too much…_

“...programs, get your souvenier programs…”

Stumbling, Cas tried to take a step back, but his prosthetic knee wouldn’t bend; walking backwards wasn’t a trick he’d learned in rehab yet. 

“...drunken asshole…”

He’d have fallen if not for the press of the crowd pushing him, pulling him, supporting him, enveloping him, annihilating him.

“...get a room…”

_...help me…_

“...go home…”

_...someone, please…_

“...too damn hot, and…”

_I need--_

“Hey buddy - you okay?” A deep voice, steady and solid, murmured in Cas’ ear. 

Cas wanted to answer. He wanted to tell the polite social lie and say he was okay - after months in recovery he was so damn sick of _not_ being okay - except he couldn’t pretend to be fine, because he couldn’t answer. His mind harangued him to open his mouth, to speak, but no words came out. He was paralyzed, like on the battlefield, like after he was injured, like in his hospital bed, like--

 _No - no, focus. I’m in New York City. I’m at Pride. I’m not hurt. I’m okay. I_ am _okay._

_I am so not okay._

His hands were over his ears, but he didn’t remember lifting them; he could still hear the concussive noise of the crowd exploding through his head like the bomb that tore apart his body. 

His eyes were scrunched shut, but he couldn’t recall closing them; he could still see the teeming mass of parade-goers shifting and flowing around him in a dizzying rainbow of colors. 

His shoulders were hunched up and in, his elbows tucked into his belly, as if he could tuck into a ball to transport himself from the chaos.

“Gonna take that as a no,” said the stranger. “Fuck. Okay...uh…” A strong hand wrapped around Cas’ elbow. “Outta my way!” 

_I can’t - I can’t_ possibly _move._

_What are you doing?_

_Why are you pulling me?_

_Why are you yelling at me?_

_Who are you?_

Why _are you?_

_What’s going on?_

_I have to leave, have to - have to - have to--_

“Hey - I know you’re freaked. I’ve been there. You need to breathe. I’m gonna get you outta here, but you’re one big dude; I’m not strong enough to, like, bridal carry you or some shit.” 

_Leave me alone!_

_I can’t accept your help._

_I can’t actually be this broken._

_...I have to...somehow, I must..._

“Shove over, dipshit, I got a situation here.”

The words weren’t aimed at Castiel. 

The man wasn’t yelling _at_ him, he was yelling... _for_...him.

The man tugged at Cas’ elbow.

Cas couldn’t move.

“...okay, if you can’t, you can’t...been there, too...new plan…” muttered the man. “...new plan...gotta…okay, step one…” 

The grip on his elbow vanished; with a panicked gasp, Cas tottered forward. He needed that stability. He _needed_ the offered help. If he wasn’t so damaged - if his head wasn’t so useless and busted - he’d be able to say that, and do what the man had suggested. Because he hadn’t been able to, now he was alone again. How would he get out of the crowd? How would he escape the noise? How would he--? 

Cloth landed on his head, cotton muffling the noise, a musky smell suffusing Cas’ nose. 

“Use that to cover your head instead, gonna need your arms.” 

Expending all the willpower he could muster, Cas moved his hands, but though he appreciated the feel of soft fabric over his calloused palms, he couldn’t make sense of what he was to do. 

“Here...I’ll just…” 

The confidence of his rescuer was sublime. Trust was hard to come by - why should a stranger help him? Why should anyone care? - but the man was so _steady_ . The smell of the shirt was so pleasant. Whoever this person was, Cas couldn’t conceive that they meant him harm - and if they did, he wasn’t helpless. If he could just remember to _breathe_ , he could take care of himself. _And until I can...I can permit this man to take care of me. I can._ So Cas allowed himself to be shifted, allowed the fabric to be wrapped around his head.

“ ...okay, so normally I’m _all_ for explicit consent but…” 

Cas grunted as a strong body backed into him and hefted. 

“Arms around my neck. I’ll do the rest.”

 _Somehow_ , Cas obeyed.

With a groan of exertion, the stranger wrapped powerful arms beneath Cas’ thighs and hoisted him up piggy-back. The back on which Cas leaned was broad and muscular, the skin soft beneath Cas’ bare arms, the neck redolent with a familiar musky scent...cologne, maybe?...as Cas lay his cloth-wrapped head on the man’s shoulder.

“All right.” The man sounded strained. “Hold on tight, dude. Gonna be slow goin’ but I’m gettin’ you outta here - gettin’ both of us out of here.” Sound enveloped them, bodies bumping into Cas, but the man was a constant protective presence. “I swear, every year Pride is busier.” Cas couldn’t help but trust him. “And like...that’s a good thing, but I dunno, man...big crowds like this give me the heebie jeebies. You too, seems to me. Think I’m done for the year. Don’t worry, I know some quiet spots, we’ll be outta this mess before ya know it, and then…” The words continued, a low rumble that Cas didn’t so much hear as feel as a soothing vibration in his chest. He let the sound wash over him, let it drown out the overlap of shouting, cheering voices. Cas’ attention, formerly drawn in every conceivable direction, narrowed to definable, fixed, manageable points.

The rise and fall of the stranger’s chest.

The _plod, plod_ of his steps.

The brush of his hair against Cas’ neck.

The play of his muscles as he flexed and shifted to keep Cas steady on his back.

The thickness of his knuckles where his hands were joined beneath Cas’ butt.

The hardness of his chest, sheathed in velvety soft skin, where Cas’ fingers brushed his sweaty flesh.

The--

“And down you go,” murmured the man; startled from his reverie, Cas barely got his good leg under him and prepared to support his weight before he thunked to the ground. His prosthetic gave out anyway; he tumbled forward, and with a squawk the man caught him.

“Shit, sorry about that! Wasn’t thinking...shoulda realized...what I get for trying to be some kinda bullshit knight in shining armor, I just…”

As the man babbled his awkward expressions of contrition, Cas steadied himself and exhaled slowly. Wherever they were was quiet, and no one touched Cas except for his savior. Cas could stand. Cas could breathe. Allowing another inhale and exhale to further calm his disturbed spirits, Cas reached up, removed whatever was wrapped around his head, and opened his eyes.

He held a multi-colored tank top in his hands, saturated blue and purple and pink on one side, pastel pink and blue and white on the other.

A bare-chested, handsome man stood before him, hair matted to his forehead with sweat, a sheepish smile matching the remorseful shrug of his cut, exposed shoulders.

Greenery surrounded them. Plants obscured the brick walls of the adjoining buildings. A vine-covered fence making the New York City streets seem a world away.

“Where…” The word came out as a croak. Closing his eyes, swallowing hard, Cas tried again. “Where are we?”

“Memorial Garden,” the man supplied. “Nearest place I could think of where you could get a breather. I don’t wanna, like, impose or anything...I can go if you want. Just didn’t seem like you were getting out of that mess without help.” Every word sounded like an apology, and Cas couldn’t help but smile.

“You’re not imposing, in any sense of the word,” Cas said. “You did the right thing. I needed help.” He still did; even the swirl of green caused by a faint breeze caused him vertigo; he focused on the ground beneath him, on the stillness of the gravel and the winding path a lone ant took across the soil.

“Thank fuck,” said the man. “I mean...shit...not like I’m glad that you got your bean scrambled, just that I was there and wasn’t wrong to step in, you know?”

“I do know,” said Cas solemnly. “And I’m grateful.” _Honk, honk_ , tooted a vehicle beyond the secluded garden, and Cas flinched at the noise. He didn’t know where he was, and still would need to get home, and his nerves were a jangled mess.

The ant was, thankfully, still on the move. Watching it’s steady progress was reassuring. If such a small creature could cross mile upon mile at a crawl, surely Cas would be all right.

He should never have left his house.

Anna kept telling him to get out more, but what had he been thinking, tackling a huge municipal event? On his best days, he couldn’t even walk in the Central Park Ramble, and the nightmares that had woken him up in a cold sweat at 6 AM had guaranteed today was _not_ one of his best days.

“If you want to be alone…” offered the man.

“I do not.” Cas wasn’t sure of much, but he was confident of that. 

“...I could stay…”

“Now who is an imposition?” sighed Cas.

“You’re not!” the man reassured him hastily. “I just wanna make sure you’re cool. Panic attacks are some serious bullshit.”

“I’m not cool. It’s 92 degrees out.”

The man broke into a slow smile. “Fair enough - so...maybe no garden? How’s an iced coffee sound instead? Or something decaf, maybe? We don’t need your nerves any more hepped up than they already are.” 

“...hepped up…?”

“I’m Dean, by the way.”

“Cas.” He held out a hand to shake, and realized he was still holding his savior’s...Dean’s...shirt. Flushing, he offered that instead. Dean took it, shaking it out to untangle it. “Who says ‘hepped up?’” It was hard not to stare; Dean’s body was, aesthetically, quite impressive. Tan skin rippled with the play of muscles beneath, perfect from cut clavicle to concave belly save where two long scars showed pale on the undersides of his breasts. 

“I do,” protested Dean, words muffled as he tugged the shirt over his head. “You got a problem with the way I talk?”

“No, your speech is quite pleasing,” Cas offered.

Dean froze.

Cas frowned. “What?”

“Who says, ‘your speech is quite pleasing?’” Dean managed around a splutter of laughter. He was so easy in his amusement, his moods so pleasant; joining in his humor, Cas’ nerves ebbed further.

“I do.” Cas matched Dean’s, and did his best to match Dean’s relaxed smile. “Do you take issue with how I talk?”

“Ha!” Dean barked. “Fuck, no. You do you, dude. And I’ll do me. And I’ll say ‘hepped up’ if I damn well please, capish?”

“I understand,” said Cas. He couldn’t stop grinning. How odd. “I’m glad it was you who helped me, Dean. I truly can’t thank you enough.”

“You...you _so_ can. You’ve thanked me. That’s enough. Come on, lets go get some iced frappe latte mochaccino thing.”

“Of course.” Cas didn’t need words to say _thank you_ again. He’d pay for whatever drink Dean opted for, and if he was observant, he could surely find other ways to repay his rescuer. “Lead the way.”

Maybe leaving his house hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.

* * *

When Dean had suggested a coffee shop, Cas had assumed they would end up at Starbucks or Au Bon Pain or the equivalent. Instead, Dean confidently navigated the West Village side streets; they were the only people moving _away_ from Pride against a thronged tide of people drifting toward the parade and after parties. Cas got his bearings quickly as they headed west and north, toward Chelsea and Cas’ usual haunts. He at least managed a walk around the neighborhood daily, but despite the familiarity that had yielded, the coffee shop where they ended up was unfamiliar. It had a tiny, nondescript store front; within, the aesthetic was subtle, soothing, dim light and a dark brown furniture. Incongruously, it was named “the Roadhouse.” The blonde barista greeted Dean cordially, starting a drink for him without taking his order.

“Get whatever you like, Cas - it’s all good,” Dean suggested. “On the house.”

It was pleasant - the kind of neighborhood joint that felt familiar from the moment one walked in, though Cas couldn’t have pinpointed what made it feel that way.

“Outta your paycheck, Winchester,” retorted the woman - Jo, her name tag said.

Bonus, it was only a few blocks from his SRO.

“I’ll have the iced green tea latte,” Cas said. “And don’t dock his pay, I’ll cover our orders.”

With or without Dean - Cas was surprised to realize he rather hoped for _with_ \- he’d be back here.

“Excellent choice, sir.” Jo turned a charming smile toward him, even as she continued to glare at Dean. 

“You don’t _have_ to pay, Cas!” Dean said as Jo turned to prepare their drinks.

“I do - consider it additional thanks.”

“Fuck no. Stop thanking me! Just like...pay it forward or something. I buy my own drinks.”

Jo snorted, and Dean started to protest, but Cas cut him off.

“So, you work here?” asked Cas.

“Only when they’re desperate,” Dean chuckled, allowing himself to be sidetracked.

“Yeah, if he was a regular we’d have no mugs left,” scoffed Jo. “He breaks like one an hour.”

“That was _one day_ ,” Dean said.

“When you broke _nine mugs_ ,” Jo snapped, bringing their drinks to the counter.

“Did that come out of your paycheck as well?” Cas smiled.

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” grumbled Dean as he picked up their orders. Cas’ came out in a metal cup, sides beaded with liquid; whatever Dean’s was filled a mug and was topped with whipped cream. Glancing at the tightly-packed tables, Dean wove a path between the mostly-empty chairs, through an open doorway, and into a small room lined with maybe a half-dozen booths. The lights were low, the piped-in music instrumental and soft, and the only other people in the room didn’t react as they entered and selected a table. 

“This work for you?” asked Dean; he didn’t set down their drinks until Cas nodded. They sidled into their respective booth benches. Sitting, especially in a narrow space, was a process for Cas; he had to get his hands under the metal knee joint, drag the leg into position, and keep it moving with him as he shifted, shifted, shifted. Sitting in a chair was easier, but he preferred the semblance of privacy the booth granted. The plushness of the cushions beneath his butt and behind his back were a major plus, too. Dean cupped his drink, eyes slipping happily shut as he inhaled; a nutty, sweet smell swirled with the curling smoke that dissipated over the table. Cas took a sip of his through the thick straw; it was delicious, more like a green tea milkshake than an iced drink.

“This is... _very_ good,” he said contentedly, relaxing back into the comfortable seat.

He’d _definitely_ be returning to the Roadhouse.

“Everything here is good.” Dean made the words sound like a pain admission, and Cas chuckled.

“But you’d never tell Jo you feel that way?”

“Hell no,” said Dean. “Girl’s got a big enough head after the way the Times wrote her up. Doesn’t need me buttering her up, too.”

“She’s the owner?”

“This place is her dream,” Dean confirmed. “Just worry she’ll work herself to death keeping it open.”

“You seem close…”

“Like a sister. We grew up together. Dunno where I’d be if she hadn’t let me crash on her floor after I ditched Kansas.”

Unsure what more to say - they were too newly acquainted for childhood talk to come naturally, and Dean’s abstracted, distant expression said there was a world of painful history covered over by his scant words - Cas only said, “That’s nice.”

Dean nodded with a non-commital grunt and lost himself again in the aroma of his drink. Grimacing, Cas took another sip of his drink, and couldn’t help but break into a smile. He had no idea what to say, but it was hard to feel concerned with yummy, sweet, cooling drink suffusing his taste buds. The atmosphere was soothing, secluded, and Cas could finally think again.

Attending Pride had been a bad idea. 

Except he’d met Dean.

Dean, with a troubled past and an open smile. Dean, who recognized a panic attack when he saw one, and had confidently moved to aid Castiel without pushing him to disclosures he couldn’t have made. Dean, who must have realized while carrying Cas that Cas wore a prosthetic, but had said nothing. Dean, who looked adorable as he took a sip of his drink and hissed at the heat.

Adorable was a strange word to choose for a sweaty, beefy man with at least an inch on Cas, but Cas couldn’t think of a better. With his flustered sweetness, his bold grins, his hidden scars, his boldly-colored shirt…

...oh, hell.

“I’m not gay,” Cas blurted out. Dean blinked at him. “Like...I’m not attracted to men, I mean. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I just--”

“Whoa, Nellie.”

“...my name is Cas…”

“Fricken duh, dude.” Dean rolled his eyes. “And no worries, I wasn’t fishing for a hook up. You always assume someone’s got an angle?” 

“In my experience, everyone does,” Cas muttered, though he knew it wasn’t true. Cynicism came easily, given how his parents and brothers behaved, but universal condemnation wasn’t fair to Anna, who’d gone above and beyond to help and support him from the moment he’d announced he was joining the army, or to…

“Sounds like life’s dealt you a garbage hand.” Dean’s expression was sympathetic, his eyes fixed on the mostly-melted whipped cream topping his mug. 

...he couldn’t think of anyone else he was being unfair to.

“I’m sorry things have been difficult, for both of us,” Cas said.

_...except...maybe...Dean?_

“Me? Naw...I mean, yeah, things used to be total shit, but since I moved to NYC? Dream come true, or close enough. Eight years of...I don’t even fuckin’ know what to call this life, like, queer-as-fuck bliss or something? Whatever. It’s been pretty damn awesome.” Dean took another sip of his drink. He found the temperature more amenable and sighed happily as he swallowed and settled back in his seat, cradling the mug against his chin. “What about you? You strike me as a recent arrival.”

“Is it that obvious?” asked Cas wryly. Dean answered with a faint tilt of his head, a grin, and a wink. “You’re not wrong. I’ve only been here six months.” Normally, that’s all Cas would share. He didn’t want to talk about what happened in Afghanistan with his therapist, _hadn’t_ talked about what happened with his own sister. Discussing them with a stranger? Opening them for public perusal? Unthinkable. But Dean felt...different. Strange, maybe, but not a stranger. And so, even as he wondered _why_ he was still talking, Cas added, “Not even six months, not really - most of that time, I was still at the VA. It’s only been six weeks since I was discharged.”

_And now he gets that sympathetic look, glances down to my leg, asks if I want to talk about it, and I say--_

“Brooklyn campus?” Dean, casual and at ease, offered him a smile. Cas was floored. No one _ever_ asked which hospital he’d been in. They wanted the juicy details - how he’d been injured, where he’d been deployed, how much it had hurt, if anyone with him had been killed. They asked all the questions Cas had _zero_ intention of answering. But Dean’s question?

“The Bronx,” Cas corrected.

Not a problem. Dean?

“Ouch, sorry about that,” Dean laughed.

So utterly _not a problem_.

“I’ve not been here long enough to understand why the Bronx has such a poor reputation,” mused Cas. “It seemed pleasant to me - vibrant - multiethnic - affordable...I wanted an apartment there, but it wasn’t close enough to my physical therapist.”

“I got three letters for ya, Cas: the CBE.”

“...that’s six letters...and I have no idea what they mean.”

“You haven’t even lived in New York long enough to know the horrors of the Cross Bronx Expressway? You poor sweet summer child.”

“...of course I’ve been on Interstate 95. No one calls it the CBE.”

“...right, but they call it Interstate 95?” 

“Stop trying to make ‘CBE’ a thing, Winchester!” Jo said. Cas looked up, startled; she was cleaning the other table that had, when they arrived, been occupied. Cas hadn’t even noticed the people leaving.

“If the BQE can be a thing, so can the CBE!”

Dean was...intensely...distracting.

“No,” said Jo flatly.

“It so can’t,” added Cas.

“You two have _just fricken met_ and you’re already teaming up on me?” grumbled Dean.

“It’s not ‘teaming up’ if you’re wrong and we both recognize that,” Cas countered.

“I like him,” Jo laughed. “You should keep him.” And she swept out of the room, oblivious to the awkward silence left in her wake.

“Wow...does, like, _everyone_ assume I can’t keep it in my pants?” Dean scowled. “First you, then...look, I swear, I’m not hitting on you.”

“I know - you said you’re not, and I believe you.” 

“If I were hitting on you, you’d know it.”

“That, I seriously doubt.”

Dean lowered his head, tilted it, gave Cas a sidelong glance, and smirked. “Hey, babe, after this, you wanna come back to my place?” His voice had changed, too, husky for no obvious reason.

“That does sound appealing, but I have to admit...this afternoon has been wearying,” said Cas, surprised at his own reluctance to turn down the invitation. Spending more time with Dean sounded...pleasant. Even if he was strange. “Though...babe? That is an...unusual...nickname. Not the oddest I’ve had, certainly but...different. My garrison-mates used to call me angel.”

“...I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not…” Dean’s brow furrowed and he sat up straight again. Confused, Cas quirked his head to one side and opted to take a sip of his drink rather than come up with a reply. “No. Really. I was pretending to hit on you. And you’re...I don’t even know.”

“...that was you hitting on me?”

“Dude, I could _not_ have been more obvious!”

“And, as I said, I seriously doubt that I’d recognize if you engaged in a flirtation directed at me.”

“...so you _were_ serious when you answered?”

“You invited me to visit your apartment; why shouldn’t I reply seriously?”

“ _Still_ can’t tell if you’re serious or not.”

“I’m serious,” Cas offered. Dean looked as baffled as Cas felt. “I’ve been told, many times, after the fact, that people have expressed interest in romantic liaisons with me. I’ve never noticed it without having it pointed out. I’m told it’s usually obvious, and I’ve tried to understand, but…” He shrugged. “It’s not something I recognize.” Dean chuckled. “While that hasn’t changed, I at least now understand that I have this weakness.” Shaking his head, Dean laughed harder. “Hence my statement that I would likely not know if you were flirting with me, and…” Setting his mug down with a clatter, Dean folded in on himself, shaking the booth with his amusement. Matcha shake sloshed out of Cas’ cup and onto the back of his hand. “I don’t understand.” He licked drops away. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because…” Dean gasped, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Because I _like_ you, Cas. Even though you talk like a fricken robot.”

The word _robot_ jangled through his nerves, and Cas’ instincts demanded he bristle. _You’re so stiff, Cassie darling. Lighten up. Lose the dictionary vocabulary. Don’t you feel, like,_ anything _? What the hell is wrong with you?_ _Hey, Cassie, now that you’ve got that leg you’ve finally achieved your life-long ambition of becoming a cyborg. Mother and father will be so proud of you._ Yet, taking another sip of his drink, watching Dean’s humor wane, it was hard to feel angry or hurt. Dean’s cheeks were rosy with mirth and his grin open, like he was sharing a joke _with_ Cas, rather than deploying one _against_ him. Dean wasn’t calling him a robot to _other_ him, and that made the comparison less unpleasant…

_Hey, Cassie, ever wonder what it would have been like for me if I’d had a damn human for a brother instead of a robot like you?_

...but it still stung.

When his siblings said such things, Cas took the barb and then forgot it, merely the latest in a lifetime of slights - the most recent reminder that he was different from other people, and not in a good way, and there was nothing he could do to change that.

There was nothing normal about today.

There was nothing normal about _Dean_.

Cas _refused_ to be normal, and he couldn’t let the taunt pass - for the first time, he _had_ to say something, and face the consequences, whatever they might be. “That is...an amusing analogy for my mannerisms.” Cas was shocked his voice was steady. “But I’ll own...I’d prefer if you not speak of me as robotic.” Over a lifetime, he’d never found the words to effectively express his discomfort with such teasing, even with Anna. “I’m _not_ a robot, and as we’ve already established - how I speak is how I speak, and not for you to judge, as how you speak is not to be subjected to my censure.” Dean watched him, eyes going wide. “I’m a person, as you are, and I wish to be treated as such.”

“Shit,” breathed Dean.

 _Of course he’s upset. I know how this conversation goes. I know what he says next: Why are you so thin-skinned, Cas? It’s just a joke. Stop being so literal. No one thinks you’re_ actually _a robot. You gotta learn to lighten up. You--_

“I’m sorry.” Sincerity, warmer than the late spring day, brighter than the sunshine, beamed from Dean’s earnest face, and Cas could only sit and stare. “I had no idea that was a sore spot. I’ll never do it again, I swear.” Tears beaded in the corners of Cas’ eyes. “And dude, if I ever say anything else that triggers you? You tell me, just like that. Okay?”

_He’s not making fun of me._

Cas opened his mouth, but he had nothing to say; he closed it and nodded.

 _He’s...seeing me, validating me, respecting me._

“Nodding ain’t enough,” insisted Dean. “I’m a dumbass, always talkin’ before I think, even though I should know better. Promise me, Cas. Always be as honest with me as you just were. _Always_. Yeah?”

_He’s meeting me where I am, and saying, “the way you are is enough, and the things that make you uncomfortable matter.”_

“Yeah,” Cas whispered, still nodding. A tear over-spilled to make a chill track down his cheek. 

_It’s like at the parade earlier - he doesn’t ask why it’s not okay, doesn’t push for disclosures, doesn’t question my discomfort._

“I promise, Dean.”

_He recognizes that this is where I’m at, and he doesn’t need further explanation ._

“But I need a promise in return,” continued Cas slowly.

_I am enough, precisely as I am._

“Anything.” Dean broke into an ingenuous grin, and something in Cas’ chest seemed to shift, to swell. “Name it.”

“You must do the same with me.” Cas had rarely felt more sure of anything he’d said during an interpersonal interaction. Dean chuckled. “You may laugh it off - but the things you’ve said and the scars on your chest make it clear your life hasn’t been easy, either.” Dean would hear Castiel, and consider his words, and understand. “You’ve been hurt, as I’ve been hurt.” _We share a history of pain; I see myself in him, and he sees himself in me._ “If I ever accidentally - or, God forbid, intentionally - say anything that makes you unhappy, you must tell me.”

“Lookit you, goin’ all serious on me,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. 

“I’ve been serious all along.” Cas stared him down until he broke into a sheepish shrug. 

“Okay, fine.” Dean spoke with apparent flippancy but his gaze was intense. “I promise. I’ll use my words, if I gotta. Deal?” He held out a hand across the table. Cas took it and gave a firm, reciprocated shake.

“Deal.” It felt like Cas was agreeing to far more than honesty, and he looked forward to finding out what more might await them.

“And speaking of using my words...what’s my chest got to do with anything?” asked Dean, something Cas couldn’t define giving his voice an edge. It might have been anger, or discomfort, or...shyness, maybe?

_Of course - as he’s not brought up my leg, I should never have mentioned it._

“I’m sorry,” Cas offered.

“Naw - no, I figured you realized about me but the way you said that...I think we’re talking about different things, and I gotta make sure we’re straight. Or not straight. I’m _really_ not straight. But you know what I mean.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Cas admitted. “Except perhaps that my interpretation of your scars as a remnant of past injury is incorrect…” Dean goggled at him. “I’m being serious again, if that helps.”

“Oh, I believe it,” Dean shook his head, and now the edge to his voice _definitely_ sounded like nerves.

“It’s not my intention to pry,” Cas said. “There’s never any need to discuss anything you’re uncomfortable sharing with me.”

“Dude. Oh, my dude. I am...so incredibly far from being uncomfortable with sharing and caring.” Dean laughed, but it was a hollow imitation of when he was actually pleased. He was certainly uncomfortable with _something_ , even if it wasn’t his scars. “You just...damn. Well, ya know what they say ‘bout assuming.”

_It’s me._

“I do not, no.”

_He’s uncomfortable with me, for the first time since we met._

“Make an ass outta you and me.”

_The scars must mean something he assumed I’d recognize - that I’d understand, no explanation needed - and that I haven’t changes things, somehow._

“That’s...amusing…” Cas struggled to sound natural, to make his expression open, as he continued, “Apropos of our recent pledges...Dean, I’m not sure what about this has distressed you, but I assure you - whatever the issue is from your point of view, I will have no issue. You are charming, and intelligent, and caring, and I’m enjoying your company very much. You’ve accepted me, prosthetic and strange mannerisms and all, as no one ever has before. Nothing you say now will change that I’m hoping we’ll be able to spend time together again, soon, including if you choose to say nothing. Does that serve as reassurance enough? For I’m willing to offer more, if you’d like.”

“Charming…” Dean quirked a skeptical eyebrow at him, and Cas nodded. “...and intelligent…” Cas continued to nod. “... _and_ caring…?” And continued to nod. Scoffing, Dean shook his head. “Oh man, you gotta _lot_ to learn about me.” The hard edge was gone from Dean’s voice, though - he was natural again, comfortable again, and Cas relaxed and took another sip of his drink. “Starting with, after moving here, those scars are the second best thing that ever happened to me. Top surgery - been four years now.” Dean eyed him, then wryly shook his head again. “You still don’t understand.”

“I’m afraid not. I’m guessing it relates to your attendance at Pride, but as I said - I’m not gay. The terminology of this community is new to me. My apologies that you have the unenviable job of educating me.”

“Eh, no worries,” said Dean, and he sounded like he meant it. “First, I ain’t gay either, I’m bi, but that’s not what the surgery was for - I’m trans, Cas. _That_ a term you know?”

Cas smiled. “Yes, you’ve finally found one I’m familiar with. Two, in fact. I know what ‘bi,’ means, too.”

“Awesome. Talkin’ the same language again. So, top surgery…” Dean made a sharp gesture across his chest and a _snickt_ sound. “...snipped my boobs off. Always hated those fuckin’ things. Not having them any longer? Seriously amaze-balls.” Dean’s expression blanched. “Did I say amaze-balls?”

“You did.”

“Fuck, I really did,” Dean groaned. “Look...can you just...forget I ever said that?”

“Not on your life, Winchester!” Jo shouted from the other room.

Dean dropped his head onto the table with a thunk.

“Thank you for your openness with me,” Cas said solemnly. Rolling his head to one side, Dean eyed him incredulously. “It’s...profoundly...amaze-balls.”

Jo’s cackling laughter echoed through the store.

“Now I _know_ you’re not being serious, Cas!”

“I’m always serious,” replied Cas with a mischievous grin. “Most especially when I’m actually not.”

“You don’t get to keep him!” Jo yelled. “ _I’m_ keeping him.”

“You may both ‘keep me,’” Cas offered. “I’ve made no friends since I moved here, and I’d very much like to continue our acquaintance. If you’d like to as well?”

Dean watched him, sitting upright again, his expression searching though Cas couldn’t guess what he sought. Whatever it was, Dean must have been satisfied, for he broke into a smile and nodded.

“Yeah, Cas.”

The swelling feeling in Cas’ chest intensified; he breathed easily for the first time since the IED ended his military career, and nearly his life.

“I’d like that a shit-ton.”

“It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Dean,” he said sincerely.

“Mutual, Cas. Fuckin’ mutual.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm from New York City born and raised - I only moved away 6 years ago - and I'm beyond thrilled to finally write a story set in my home town...
> 
> ...I tried to make CBE a "thing" for like, the entire 5 years I lived in the Bronx. 
> 
> I failed.
> 
> Dean did, too.


End file.
